


Until the Sun Comes Up Over Santa Monica Boulevard

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: California, Civil War, F/M, Near Future, New frontiers, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: On the long, dusty road to Drum Barracks, Byron Hale runs into an old acquaintance.
Relationships: Byron Hale / Eliza Foster
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

McBurney had promised him Hell, and he appeared to be a man of his word; the Overland Trail towards it was weeks’ worth of Purgatory.

Byron Hale had spent days and nights jostled in uncomfortable coaches, living off cold, ridiculously expensive sandwiches hastily purchased at stations, with only mere minutes to soothe any of the many physical discomforts between relays. As he had made his way West, growing thinner, dustier and emptier by the mile, he found himself yearning for the comfort of his old army cot, his boring but steady meals, and any kind of occupation. Both his books and topics of conversations with the other two passengers had been extinguished somewhere in Nebraska, and there was only the thunder of the galloping horses and the occasional shouts of the driver to fill his ears for the remainder of the trek.

He had seen wondrous sights over the long road; animals unbeknownst to him, prairies with no horizon in sight, the tallest mountains he had ever thought possible. He had wondered about all those that had come before him, taking months to cross the same distance, some never reaching their goal. He had thought of the Donner Party, horrifically lost to Hastings Cutoff, an alleged shortcut to California abandoned since they had met their gruesome end. With such a name, no wonder any expedition down that path had resulted in such overwhelming failure.

Despite the tribulations, he had finally arrived in Placerville has the winter sun dropped low in the cloudless sky, and exited the stagecoach on legs that shook when they touched the California soil. As quickly as his sore limbs allowed him, he recuperated his few belongings and took stock of the small town, looking for an inn, or even a lowly saloon; hell, it could even be a barn as long as it could provide him a washbasin, a hot meal and a more or less horizontal surface to sleep on.

As if to make up for the torture of the last month, he was granted the greatest of visions. A hotel! A full-fledged, brick-facaded, wrought iron balconied hotel! _Cary House_ , spelled the square white letters on the roof. It was almost a dream, or a bad joke, to travel over 2000 miles only to fall upon the Western twin to Mansion House.

As if stumbling upon a long lost oasis, he pushed the door open, to find a brightly lit lobby, with plush carpets, chandeliers and chairs he would never dare to sit on in his present state. _Can I even afford this place?_ He suddenly doubted, uncertain as to his new stipend and payment terms. _Surely the Devil will allow me one night of comfort before claiming my life?_

“Welcome, Captain,” greeted the hotelier, a stout, pleasant man, from behind the desk. “Long ride? You’ll be wantin’ a room or meal?”

“Both, please,” Hale sighed, wearily. “And a bath, if at all possible?”

“Anything for our Union troops, sir. All floors have bathrooms with hot and cold running water. And dinner will be served at seven in the dining room. On the house.”

_Oh Sweet Lord. Then the Devil can gladly have my soul too._


	2. Chapter 2

Later, after one long (albeit never long enough) bath, a fresh uniform and a delicious meal that took every inch of his proper upbringing not to wolf down, Hale entered the hotel’s common room in search of a cigar and nightcap. While waiting for his drink at the bar, he examined his surroundings. A fire had been lit to brighten the dim room, a few lamps providing additional lighting to those few who were partaking in the large bookcase’s offerings. Three men played cards at a table in one corner, two more were discussing enthusiastically at another as they poured each other shots from a whisky bottle. Below a large painting nestled between two draped windows, was the only chesterfield in the room; and, on it, sat the only woman.

Oh, was she ever a sight for sore eyes! A vision in purple, with carefully coiffed blonde hair, a book upon her lap, a glass of spirits in her hand. His gaze must have held weight, for she soon lifted hers, and met his; the face it revealed was striking, not only in its beauty, but in its familiarity. From the shift in its expression, he knew his realization was mirrored, although, for the life of him, he could not place her.

Gingerly grabbing his drink, he crossed the room to meet her: she had stood from her seat, barely keeping her curiosity in check. “Well, I never…” she began, the mid-Atlantic sonorities bringing him back across the continent. “Dr. Hale! Whatever brings you to California? Has the war ended and forgotten to let us know?”

He took the proffered hand gently, inwardly panicking at not being able to follow suit in her recognition. “Special affectation from our Chief Surgeon to Drum Barracks in Santa Monica, unfortunately not overwritten by the one who replaced him. But since Colonel Lee’s taken command of the camp, he's made considerable improvements; they are now building a hospital, and I’ve been tasked with running it.”

“That’s quite the opportunity!” she gushed. “But Major McBurney? Replaced already at Mansion House? Whatever happened to him? ”

 _A woman scorned happened._ “Oh, a most baffling illness. Of the guts and nerves.”

“The poor man,” she sighed, and sat down, gesturing for him to join her. “We must wish him a prompt recovery, although from what Jedidiah mentioned of his character… perhaps his replacement is for the best.”

 _Jedidiah? As in **Foster**_? _How the devil did she-_

Oh.

Oooooh.

 _This is Foster’s **wife**. Thinner, tanner, blonder, but definitely _ **Foster’s wife.**

Oooooooooooooooh.

He looked at her appreciatively, now vividly recalling the few times she had come by the hospital, earlier in Foster’s tenure; a personal favorite of Dr. Summers, she always was the picture of elegant ladyship, speaking kindly with the staff and patients convalescing from minor ailments, although staying clear of the surgical ward. “I quite agree, Mrs. Foster.”

She shushed him with a wave of her hand. “No, please…. Mrs. Foster is not exactly… accurate, anymore. The final papers were signed just last week. I’m back to using my maiden name, Cameron. Thankfully, none of these fine frontiersmen need to know that it ever was otherwise.”

Oooooooooooooooooooooooh.

_This is Foster’s wife. Who’s divorced him. And put the whole country between them. And chucked his name out along the way._

_Another woman scorned. And a lovely one at that. I’m enjoying California more every minute._

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he sympathised, inwardly rejoicing at his rival’s humiliation. “I was not aware of it. Dr. Foster was a… uh… esteemed colleague and a good doctor.” He took a sip of brandy to prevent further embellishments.

“Was he?” she retorted, with a hint of bitterness. “As a private clinician, when he ran his practice in Baltimore, I believed so. But as a military surgeon, I always felt he lacked the… manual dexterity for it.”

The brandy burned his throat as he choked on it. Somehow, he managed to get it down, and keep the tears from streaming out of his eyes. “He had his… limitations, yes. In the surgical department.” _Oh Foster, you total, incompetent ass._ _Here, let me put you out of your misery._ “Although I don’t have any further news since his departure for Boston,” he added slyly.

“Boston? Whatever for?” she asked, until her brow suddenly unfurled in comprehension. She sighed and shook her head in disbelief. “It was that Yankee nurse, wasn’t it? The Duchess?”

“Baroness,” he could not help but correct. “Von Olnhausen, or something similarly foreign. I never understood what he saw in her; she had neither your sophistication nor true American stock.” _Oh dear Miss Phinney, forgive me those white lies_. “But my apologies! I’m sorry to be adding to what is surely an unpleasant matter.”

“Oh, please, don’t be,” she scoffed. “What’s one more drop in an already overfilling glass. It just confirms how right this move was. This fresh start. That German trollop is welcome to him, and good riddance!” She rose her glass and then proceeded to down it in one draught; initially wincing at the unwarranted insult, he quickly dismissed it and followed suit. _Collateral damage is unavoidable in battle. And what an interesting one this is proving to be…_

Signalling to the bartender, he called for two more drinks and thought it prudent to change the subject. “Speaking of moves, how have you settled in California?”

Half-turning, she settled deeper in her seat, her elbow daintily resting atop the couch's wooden frame. “Well, since last year's great floods, Sacramento’s been effervescently rebuilding. My father purchased a lumber mill at just the right time, business has been absolutely booming. It’s exciting, building a new town from the ground up, as I’m sure you’ll see in Drum Barracks. I’ve been working on the various ladies’ committees and fundraisers, and there being so few of us ladies here, it’s proven to be quite an influential position. It’s amazing how many contracts my father was awarded simply because all these lonely men have not been sweet-talked over tea and biscuits by a pretty woman in months,” she winked.

Hale grinned, mirroring her posture to come closer conspiratorially. “Proves that you can take a girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of her. How did you ever bear the travel from Virginia?”

“Oh, the crossing was incredibly long, but overall rather comfortable, if not for the very dull company. Thankfully, us Marylanders have sturdy dispositions, and sturdier sea legs."

“Sea legs,” Hale repeated, as if dumbstruck. “By ship. Of course. That makes a lot more sense.”

“More sense? Than what? How did you ever come here?”

He hesitated before admitting. “The Overland.”

Her mouth dropped in surprise. “Well… that makes you quite the rugged adventurer, Dr. Hale! I’ve just come back from Denver on the stagecoach and that was enough of an experience, so crossing the whole country? How amazing!” She leaned forward enthusiastically. “Did you encounter wild beasts? Were you attacked by Indians? Or outlaws? Was there a gunfight?”

He almost blushed from her eagerness, but hid it with a stroke to his whiskers. “There were… squirmishes. Nothing the Army doesn’t train you for. And it at least disrupted the boredom of travelling with prospective ranch hands and railroad workers. As for travel comforts, there were none to speak of, but, as a wise man once said, pain is cathartic.”

“Is that so? Well, in that case, you must have expiated a few lifetimes these last weeks.” Her expression darkened, her lips curling in a joyless smirk. “And so have I, over these last years, although in a much less tangible manner.”

He reached to touch her arm, the gentlest of caresses recalling her faraway gaze back to his. “Pain is pain, be it from the heart, body or soul.” He spoke so earnestly he almost believed himself. "I'm sure my temporary physical discomforts pale next to the suffering you must have endured all this time from this waste of a man. He was an absolute fool to lose such a treasure." Moved by his words, her smile returned demurely, her brightness tentatively rekindled, and he knew that in his last sentence, at least, he did earnestly believe. 

Their new glasses appeared, and Hale promptly raised his in a toast. “To the past being past, and pain along with it.”

She emulated him. “To new beginnings, and new friendships.” They clicked their glasses and drank, and ordered more once again, eager to return to the jolliness of their earlier conversation.

They ordered once again mere minutes after it, following a grandiose tale of Hale’s exploits in his very first military posting. 

And once more after Eliza's hilarious retelling of the time she had attempted - and disastrously failed - to plan a charity event with the intolerable Jane Green and her empty-headed daughters.

And once more again, after which the bartender simply left them the bottle of port, which Eliza insisted he place on her tab. “To Jed, who’s paying for all of this!” she toasted giddily.

“To Foster! A mediocre surgeon, but a great banker!”

They laughed merrily, Eliza keeling forward and reaching to steady herself with a hand to his knee, sending shockwaves up his leg. “Oh, forgive me,” she gasped. Quickly, she withdrew her hand, but not as quickly as she would have, had it been purely accidental. It was not lost upon him, and that she knew that he knew it.

Over the next hour, the card game ended, the debate escalated to a fight and was forcibly taken outside, the books returned to their shelves, until only Byron and Eliza remained in the common room, speaking of any and all subjects, laughing and teasing one another as the oldest of friends, the innocent, unintentional touches growing more frequent under the dimming glow of the dying fire and the visibly exasperated glare of the bartender. At some point, despite their growing inebriation, there was no longer any ignoring it, and they had no further choice but to call it a night.

Below her flushed cheeks, the smile she bestowed upon him was more dazzling than the desert sun. “Dr. Hale, this has been the most… cathartic of evenings. Thank you for bringing me back to Alexandria, and making me ever so glad to be rid of the wretched place and all its inhabitants.”

He bowed his head. “And thank you for showing me that California may very well be the wondrous Land of New Beginnings we both so seek.” With the breathiest, most enticing of sounds, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, she nodded and made to stand; but either from her clouded mind or the prolonged sitting, her footing was unsure, and she wavered.

At once, Byron was up, his hand at her waist, hers braced for stability upon his arm, but he was no sturdier. "Careful now," was all he said, in little more than a whisper, and she gave the tiniest of nods, her breath uneven, her eyes fixed upon the floor. For an instant, they stayed at such, grasping for balance, for clarity, until Eliza guffawed, and Hale snorted, and they were once again laughing, this time as the ridiculousness of their situation.

"What a fine pair we make," Eliza finally said, retrieving her bearing and drawing herself to her full height. Regretfully, he saw her take a step back, out of his embrace, her hand lingering down his arm. Hale caught it like a lifeline. Where their touch upon meeting had been only warmly polite, tainted by the uncertainty of recognition, this one upon parting was scalding, sending a jolt directly to his chest, his breath rushing from it to his mouth to ask, if not beg:

“Mrs. Fos- Cameron… Eliza. We _do_ make the finest of pairs. Please, should I ever find myself in Sacramento, may I be so bold as to call upon you?”

It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun, the blue of her eyes suddenly dark as an overcast ocean sky. She hesitated before answering. “Oh, Byron, I don't... Sacramento is such long way from Santa Monica, and with the war raging on, and our respective constant occupations...” Softly, she shook her head.

However, Hale's disappointment vanished before it landed, as he felt her run her thumb exquisitely across his knuckles. “However, should you find yourself on the sixth floor tonight, you may be so bold as to knock upon door number 3. That is, if you still believe yourself to be the better skilled… _physician.”_

He almost lost his footing once more. With a last tilt of her head to hide the teasing curve of her mouth, she slowly pulled herself free, her fingers brushing against his until the last possible second. The sudden lack of contact was unbearable, and there was only one type of catharsis possible from this pain. “I assure you,” he spoke with a voice that somehow managed to stay suave despite the hoarseness of anticipation, “that whatever ails you, under my care, will no longer trouble you tomorrow ... but, to be extra certain, it may be prudent to repeat dosing in the morning.”

Her blue eyes widened slightly at the implication, but she checked herself, biting her lower lip as she smiled on, her eyes never leaving his. “Start by not getting the room number wrong, and proving that your treatment is as effective as you claim it to be, Doctor, and we'll see about the required posology. But my coach doesn't leave until eleven, should a... complementary therapy be in order."

Before he could reply any further, she turned and left, swaying slightly as she exited the room, her hand reaching the door frame for stability, one last furtive glance thrown over her shoulder to seal his fate.

Sixth floor, third door. 6-3. 63. Like this most blessed of new years. How could he ever mistake it? If the room behind that number held one fifth of the wonders he imagined, he would make it his personal sigil. He'd use it in the name of his future ranch, of his first stud. Hell, he'd get it tattooed on any body part Eliza-No-Longer-Foster chose.

With relish, he took a moment to finish the bottle, toasting Foster and Mary and McBurney once more, and even Anne Hastings for good measure. _Thank you all, and fuck you all, and ‘til forever, farewell._

And with a generous tip to the barman, he made for the stairs, two at a time, six floors closer to California's starlit sky.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to to all the tumblr enablers that took this borderline shitpost and turned it into a pairing no one asked for:  
> https://sagiow.tumblr.com/post/190949318818/character-ask-tell-me-about-byron-hale-please 
> 
> I actually researched a good bit of the details in there, here are some links if you're curious (but don't factcheck me on everything. Creative license is claimed, otherwise it would've taken me another day to get through it, and editing, in my rusty state, took long enough)  
> https://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=25066  
> https://www.sierranevadageotourism.org/content/historic-cary-house-hotel/sie782aa7d493655851e  
> https://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WMFCCF_Overland_Stage_Route_Point_of_Rocks_Wyoming  
> The Hastings Cutoff was an actual thing! You can't make this stuff up! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California_Trail
> 
> Smarter people than me recommended that a ship would've been a better way to travel to California, but that took away all the fun of the dusty frontiertown setting... Eliza, at least, did listen to your fine advice. Her surname is the same as in "For All the Nights to Come", and is the name of a street in Old Alexandria (close to Fairfax, which already made the show)
> 
> Title, you know it, from Sheryl Crow. I thought of using "Dangerously Close to One Another" but considering there is nothing remotely subtle about the whole fic, why should the title be? It'll keep it in mind for a potential sequel, if there is any interest for it and mutuals were not just kindly humoring my nutty headcannon.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dangerously Close to One Another](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972281) by [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow)




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